Winchester 1886 (7 page)

He dropped the card, revealing a full house, aces over kings.

Gil let out with an old rebel yell, shook his head in disbelief, and refilled his glass with rye. “That's a hand, ol' pal!” He turned toward the men at the bar and the table, who were concentrating on the poker game.

“It most certainly is, friends,” McIntyre said, letting Waco reach for the pot with both hands before springing his trap. The fingers on the gambler's left hand turned over his hole card. Danny Waco froze, and the man called Gil swore.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

The nine of spades.

Not a royal flush, but a straight flush beat a full house any day of the week.

Waco shot back, his right hand going for the Colt, but a Remington over-and-under derringer appeared in McIntyre's hand. Those twin .41-caliber barrels just a few feet from Waco's nose stopped him.

“Don't.” The Southern charm could no longer be detected in the voice of Dehner McIntyre, native of Georgia, cheater at cards.

A half dozen cocked revolvers punctuated the gambler's order. Danny Waco and his partner became statues as the batwing doors pounded and six other men armed with shotguns entered Dick's.

“Your Indian friend is waiting at Miller's livery,” said Greg Mason, the head of Caldwell's vigilantes. He gripped a Schofield .45 in his right hand.

“This sharper . . . He . . .” Waco stopped. He wasn't about to beg, and the look on those vigilantes' faces told him they cared nary a whit whether he had been cheated or not.

“You and your boys are leaving town,” Mason said.

Waco nodded. He had been run out of better burgs than this hayseed town. Besides, being asked to leave sure beat being locked up in jail to wait extradition to Judge Parker's court for trial, conviction, and hanging. He picked up the bottle of rye, and stared at Dehner McIntyre, who calmly raked in his winnings.

“I'll be seeing you, mister,” Waco said icily.

The gambler slid the Winchester off the table, pressing the stock against his thigh, and worked the lever. A giant .50-100-450 popped out and bounced across the floor. His grin held no warmth or humor, either. “I look forward to the visit.”

When the two outlaws stormed through the batwing doors, most members of the Border Queen City Vigilance Committee followed them, never lowering their shotguns, rifles, or revolvers, bound and determined to make sure they, indeed, left Caldwell. After they had passed the plate-glass window, McIntyre thumbed back the Winchester's hammer and laid the big rifle on the table.

Mason stood in front of him. “And you're to be on that train, gambler. Don't forget it.”

“Of course.” McIntyre returned the emerald stickpin to its proper place in his ascot. “Would you mind handing me that shell?”

The vigilante nodded to one of his associates, who bent, knees popping, and fingered the giant bullet, which he tossed onto the pile of money, chips, and plunder in front of McIntyre. Then, they were gone, too.

McIntyre picked up one of the watches, pressed on the button and watched the case, engraved with a large elk and foliage, open. The large Springfield Watch Company model felt heavy—probably solid silver—with roman numerals and blue spade hands. The time read 5:37. He slipped it inside his vest pocket.

The 7:15, of course, would pull out for Wichita on time, but McIntyre would not be on it. He was no fool. Waco and his gang would want that big Winchester, the money, the watches, everything McIntyre had cheated them out of. They would want him dead, too, and he had told them he was going to Dodge City.

So, most likely, they would either meet him in Wichita, when he had to change trains. Or in Wellington. They might even wait till he got to Dodge City. Life used to be cheap in Dodge, but civilization had reached that old cattle town, too.

Well, McIntyre would outsmart them. His luck was turning, he felt, and he had seen Dodge City before. Maybe Ogallala, Nebraska. Or west to Denver. He had plenty of money, a .50-caliber repeating rifle, and he figured he could buy a horse at Miller's livery—as soon as the vigilantes made sure Danny Waco had left Caldwell.

 

 

 

After leaving the corpses with the undertaker, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jimmy Mann walked toward the depot, Jackson Sixpersons right behind him.

“I need to get to Caldwell, Kansas,” Jimmy told the agent. He showed him his badge. “Fast as possible.”

“Let me see what I can get for you, Marshal.” The agent hurried away from the window and began flipping through books on a table.

Turning, Jimmy saw Sixpersons' frown. “I know. By the time I get to Caldwell, Waco will be gone. But I can pick up his trail there.” Jimmy forced a smile. “Maybe even get some sleep on the train. You've been hounding me—” He stopped.

The Cherokee lawman kept shaking his head.

“Waco went to Caldwell,” Jimmy said, sharper.

“Your jurisdiction,” Sixpersons reminded him, “ends at the state line.”

Jimmy tapped the badge. “This here says I am a
United States
deputy marshal.”

“And your commission says for the Western District of Arkansas including the Indian Nations. Not Kansas.”

The agent was back. “I can get you on the Katy to Parsons. Then to Cherryvale. Then Winfield. To Wellington. Down to Caldwell. It'll get you to Caldwell, if everything stays on schedule, which they won't, by . . .”

Jimmy didn't care. He simply nodded, his cold eyes boring straight through Sixpersons.

“I kinda hoped you'd see things my way, Jackson,” Jimmy said after a long while.

The Indian's face looked sad. It was about the first time Jimmy had ever seen the Cherokee reveal any emotion.

“Badge means something to me, Jimmy,” Sixpersons said. “So does my word.”

With an understanding nod, Jimmy turned to gather the assortment of tickets the agent had given him. A few moments later, he stopped in front of Sixpersons, who handed him the battered Winchester '73. “He was my brother, Jackson.”

The Cherokee nodded. “I know. This is something you have to do. But I can't go with you.”

It was better this way, Jimmy figured. He didn't know how long it would take him to track down Danny Waco and that .50-caliber Winchester—nor did he care. And there was a good chance anyone traveling with Jimmy Mann might get killed. He could use a friend, a good man, plus that shotgun Sixpersons wielded, but he didn't want the old Cherokee lawman to get hurt. Besides, Sixpersons was right. This was something he had to do. Alone.

“You'll telegraph Fort Smith for me? Tell them . . .”
Tell them what? That I am resigning my commission, but will still use the badge to get whatever I need? That I am forgetting that oath I recited with my right hand over the judge's Bible? That I would kill Danny Waco—in cold blood if I had to?

Sixpersons only nodded.

“And take care of Old Buck for me?” No reason in loading Buck on the train, Jimmy thought, taking him across the Indian Nations and Kansas. Maybe even farther.

Again, Sixpersons nodded.

“So long.” Jimmy didn't offer to shake the Cherokee's hand, but his right held the Winchester and his left the bundle of tickets for various trains.

The Cherokee pulled a pouch from his pocket, and passed it to Jimmy, who shook his head. “That badge won't get you everything. You'll need some money. More than I do.”

“All right.” Jimmy slipped the rifle under his arm, took the beaded leather pouch, slipped it into his pocket. “And if the railroad pays anything for those idiots we brought in . . .”

“I'll save half for you.” The Cherokee grinned, his head nodding his farewell.

Jimmy went toward the rails. Sixpersons walked to the hitching rail.

 

 

 

“He ain't on the train, Danny.”

The locomotive churned coal-black smoke, the taste heavy on Danny Waco's tongue. He stared at Gil Millican, and looked at the passengers disembarking the train from Caldwell. A drummer in a plaid suit. A nun.

Wellington didn't bustle like Kansas City or Omaha. At 9:30
P.M.
, the town was asleep, seeming as dull as Caldwell. That cheating sharper, Dehner McIntyre, couldn't have slipped off the train, gotten off.

Spitting into a trashcan, Waco swore. “He never got on.”

Millican's eyes widened. “He said—”

“I know what he said.” Waco made a beeline for the horses. That lousy gambler had his cash, had his Winchester.

“He said he was goin' to Dodge,” Millican said. “Maybe we can meet him there.”

Pulling the newspaper he had picked up from some tyke of a hawker at the depot, Waco shoved the
Times
under Millican's eyes. “We can't go to Dodge City,” he snapped. “Law won't be so gutless in Dodge City. They'll be after that reward the Katy's posted.”

“What about your rifle?”

Waco wadded the newspaper into a ball and tossed it underneath one of the train's coaches. “Maybe it'll show up in Nebraska.” He saw The Tonk waiting across the street with the horses and pack mule. He knew they needed to put some distance between themselves and the Indian Nations, and Wellington, Kansas. Even Dodge City wasn't that far from the reach of the law. He hated to run, hated to give up on killing Dehner McIntyre and fetching that Winchester '86. But he didn't want to die.

 

 

 

Camping along the banks of the Medicine Lodge River, Dehner McIntyre had money in his pockets, coffee in the pot on the fire, a fine blue roan with some Tennessee Walker in her blood, and a twenty-five-cent cigar in his mouth.

He ran a rag over the Winchester's barrel, and began to wonder just what he needed with a .50-caliber rifle. Gamblers didn't use rifles, especially gamblers like him, who knew how to deal off the bottom of the deck, how to palm cards. Men like him used hideaway guns like that Remington derringer.

On the other hand, a derringer wouldn't bring down a deer. He probably couldn't even hit a rabbit with that little popgun, and it was a long way to Hays City. Luck was still running with McIntyre, and he had decided to try his luck in Hays, leaving Dodge City to the likes of Danny Waco and his men.

 

 

 

He stared hard into Greg Mason's eyes until the full-time newspaper editor and part-time vigilante looked away and motioned to the bartender to bring a bottle of something that wouldn't blind a man. “Did you know he robbed a train in the Nations?” Jimmy asked again.

The bartender found a bottle of Jameson, and Mason poured two fingers in a tumbler for Jimmy Mann and four fingers for himself.

Jimmy laid his Winchester on the bar. “I asked you a question. Twice.”

Mason shot down his liquor, and quickly refilled the glass. “I didn't know, Marshal.” He let out a heavy sigh.

Well
, Jimmy thought,
what did I expect?
He sipped the Irish whiskey. “But you knew he was wanted—”

Swearing bitterly, Mason turned around and gave Jimmy an equally hard stare. “What did you expect me to do? Get the citizens of this town—maybe even their kids and dogs—shot to pieces? This isn't Caldwell ten years ago, Marshal. It's a town full of good people with good children. Most of them cater to farmers. You come to Caldwell, chances are you'll see a bunch of farm families. What's Waco's reward up to these days? A thousand dollars? Five? Even if it was ten thousand dollars, I don't think that's worth risking the lives of women and children. Do you?” He didn't wait for an answer. “It seemed to me that the best thing to do was get those gunmen out of town. But I guess that's something you just don't understand.”

Jimmy finished the whiskey, and surprised the vigilante. “I understand.”

Each had another whiskey.

“I don't know, Marshal,” Mason said wearily. “Had I known about the Katy robbery . . . had I known about your brother . . .” The whiskey went down. He corked the bottle, which made Jimmy relieved. As much as he wanted to get drunk, he knew he couldn't afford that.

“It's all right,” Jimmy said. “Wasn't your fight. It's my fight. Which way did Waco go?”

“We pointed him north,” the vigilante said. “Wellington? Wichita?” Suddenly, Mason paused, rubbed his nose, and cocked his head, thinking.

“Go on.”

“Well, there was a gambler in town. He took Waco and one of his men for a pile of money.”

Jimmy waited.

“Gambler's name was Dehner McIntyre. We were running him out of town, too. A sharper, he was. Marshal at Hunnewell had sent me a telegraph about him, which is why we'd asked him to take the next train north.”

He knew where the vigilante was pointing, what he was thinking. If this Dehner McIntyre busted Danny Waco at a poker table, that wasn't something that Waco would let lie. A man like Danny Waco would go after the gambler.

“Do you know where McIntyre was going?”

“He said Dodge City.”

Dodge City. Wonderful.
It couldn't have been Coffeyville or Wichita, someplace close. Dodge lay about a nine- or ten-day ride northwest of Caldwell, but Jimmy had spotted a good-looking sorrel at the livery. He was sick of riding trains. Every face of every crewmember reminded him of Borden or Millard. Sometimes even his nephew, James. It was time to leave the rails behind and sit in a saddle. For if he caught up with Danny Waco, he'd likely need a horse when the chase really began.

“You said Waco had two men with him,” Jimmy said.

Mason's head bobbed. “That we saw. Saddle tramp and an Indian. They rode out with him, of course.”

“Did one of them have a big Winchester?” Jimmy asked.